


Seven Per-Cent Solution

by forsciencejohn



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cocaine, Other, TW: Blood, TW: drug use, tw: minor breathplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-10
Updated: 2013-03-10
Packaged: 2017-12-04 20:35:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/714822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forsciencejohn/pseuds/forsciencejohn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because although Victor is his bedmate, the drug—his cocaine, his seven per-cent solution—is his lover, which gives him a peace that nothing else can.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seven Per-Cent Solution

**Author's Note:**

> Loosely based off of Deni's art, found here: johnnybooboo.tumblr.com/post/43947671415/seven-per-cent-solution
> 
> Also: I am not a cocaine user, nor do I know any cocaine users, and Wikipedia is my best friend.

Sherlock can practically feel the drug leaving his body.  The pleasant hum that the cocaine creates in his brain is slowly being overtaken by the incessant, infuriating scream of his own thoughts.  He makes a mental note to increase his dosage; the high had only lasted twenty-three minutes that time.  A hand snaking down his trousers and lips working on his neck draw him out of his reverie.  Of course Victor is still feeling the effects of his first hit; his tolerance isn’t nearly as high as Sherlock’s.  Irritably, Sherlock pushes Victor away.

“Wait,” he says, rolling out of bed and stumbling across Victor’s room to the dresser, where all their supplies are laid out.  The act of preparing the solution is second nature to him by now—dissolving the powder, drawing the liquid into the syringe, insertion into the basilic vein, and then… bliss.  The high washes over him as he takes a deep breath, ears ringing.  He slowly withdraws the syringe and replaces it on the dresser with reverence.  When he turns back around, Victor is frowning at him slightly.

“Another hit?  Already?”

“Shut up,” Sherlock hisses, straddling his partner.  He doesn’t know how long the high building in his blood will last, and he needs to take what pleasure he can get while he can.

“But Sherlock,” Victor presses, even as he is pressed down into the mattress, “That’s incredibly dangerous.  You might—”

Sherlock cuts off any of Victor’s further protests with a strong hand around his throat.  His eyes dilate in arousal as he struggles for air.  Sherlock grins maliciously as he leans down and presses his lips to Victor’s ear.

“I said,” he growls, low and dangerous, “ _Shut.  Up_.”  And then speech is abandoned for more desirable things. 

***

Later, when Sherlock feels himself losing the high again, he can almost find it in himself not to be upset.  _That_ solution (estimated at seven per-cent, Sherlock thinks, though more tests would have to be done to confirm) had lasted a glorious forty-five minutes—which is more than can be said for his partner.  Victor is beside him, spent and sleeping through his own crash.  In moments like these, Sherlock envies Victor’s simple mind, the average intellect that allows him to sink into oblivion post-high while Sherlock spirals off into chaos.  He slips out of bed and returns to the dresser, going through the ritual of preparing his solution once more.  But this time, his hands are shaking slightly as he removes the syringe, and a small, steady stream of blood flows from the puncture site.  He staggers off to the bathroom and turns on the faucet in the tub.  Victor’s tub is old and dirty, and the drain is clogged so that the bloodstained water washing off of Sherlock’s arm pools in the basin.

_Beautiful_ , Sherlock’s drug-addled mind provides as he watches the bloody water create magnificent swirls and patterns.  He wants to bask in it, drown himself in it.  He slides in and closes his eyes, imagining that he can feel his own blood, separate from the water, caressing him, drawing him in further, and he knows it’s just the drug that’s making him think these things, but he smiles all the same.  Because although Victor is his bedmate, the drug—his cocaine, his seven per-cent solution—is his lover, which gives him a peace that nothing else can.

So he smiles, and allows his lover to engulf him, and wonders if this time it will take him into oblivion.


End file.
